La nuit du chasseur
by bellmare
Summary: If only her parents could see her now. What else would she need to complete her checklist to send them into apoplexy, she wants to know. — Blake/Weiss.


The girl in black is right.

She's right, of course; everything she's said about the Schnee industries is true.

Weiss will have to do damage control, of course. That girl, the one from Signal who'd tripped all over her luggage - she'd have to work on her later. Uphold the Schnee family name. Preserve the reputation of the Dust Company.

There are pamphlets in her bags. She'll have to retrieve them later, seek that girl out. Set the record straight; it is no fault of her or the conglomerate, but on the girl's own carelessness. "A perfectly justifiable response," Weiss murmurs to herself, fingers clenching around the vial of Dust. "I do not rely on primitive ammunition like the lot of them."

_And your standing is all the more shaky for it,_ she thinks. Her brow twists. She pats Myrtenaster, running her fingers over its guard and barrel. There's a welcome weight to the rapier; its chambers are comfortingly stocked, still heavy with the Dust that gives her weapon its edge.

"It must be nice," a voice says, "to have such tools at your disposal, provided freely by your family and paid for by the back-breaking labour of the exploited masses. A pity, that you're so reliant on such scarce resources."

She whirls. There's the girl in black, watching from the shadows. Her eyes glint in the half-light, a preternatural amber. Weiss is reminded of a cat and its unflinching stare, cold and condescending. She'd never liked them, anyway.

"You," she snaps. The girl smiles; it doesn't reach her eyes. "Me," she replies and unfolds her arms. "How long are you going to stay so naive, I wonder."

Weiss curls her fingers into fists. She can feel her nails digging against her palm. "I could have the family's lawyers on you in an instant for the slander you're spreading," she says slowly. The girl gives a short, bitter laugh.

"I also wonder," she says, advancing towards Weiss with languid steps, "how long you will live under the undoubtedly enviable illusion that you hold so much sway in the Company. You're little more than a child, to them; they'll never take orders from you."

She's tall. Weiss already knows this, from the confrontation in front of Beacon. She meets the other's gaze squarely, drawing herself up to her full height; she knows the rules of physical intimidation. Stand tall, keep the back straight and shoulders back, arms loose at the sides, make full eye contact. Don't act or speak rashly; don't show emotion. She knows it all, in practise; yet, standing here in an alcove by the ballroom, all theory leaves her mind.

"Who're you?" she demands, and regrets it instantly. She's already let the upper hand slip, by speaking first, by allowing herself to be influenced by apprehension. She knows nothing. Nothing about this stranger; nothing about this black-haired girl with her narrow fox face.

The girl laughs under her breath and stops short; she regards Weiss from beneath lowered lashes. "Just a nobody," she says. Her voice is low, measured, a quiet purr. Weiss doesn't like having to look up to meet her eyes.

Their physical proximity unnerves her. She can feel her skin prickling; they're standing toe-to-toe, too close for comfort. Weiss takes a half-step back, and reconsiders. She won't show weakness.

"You'll want to rethink blindly defending what you know so little about," the girl says and turns. Only once she's gone does Weiss allow herself to let out a breath she didn't realise she was holding.

The frustration bubbles in her veins; she tightens her fingers around the bottle of Dust she's still holding, imagining it's the pale neck of the stranger in her hands.

.

How fortuitous. It's just her luck, to have the exploding crater girl as her partner. Even better, to be assigned to the same team as crater girl's loutish sister and her partner.

Of all the people, Weiss thinks, it has to be the black-haired girl.

"This does not by any count make us friends," she snarls. The other girl smiles thinly. When she doesn't reply, Weiss brandishes her trump card.

"I know who you are," she declares, "Blake Belladonna. Don't think you can continue to insult my-"

"Save the posturing for those who can be cowed by it," Blake says. "You'll only embarrass yourself."

.

She still hasn't gotten the hang of combat. Most of her experience has been in controlled environments, sterile and artificial. She knows the theory of battle, too, and how to make full use of Myrtenaster's capabilities. It all sounds simple, in her head; steady breaths, a wide stance to ensure solid grounding, keeping her footwork light and adaptable; exploiting her environment and opponent's weakness to her advantage, keeping the arms and shoulders loose so as to allow a wide range of fluid motion.

Yet, the moment she enters the training field, she forgets.

Today, she's scheduled to spar with Blake; supposedly, it's a practise to acclimatise herself with the fighting style of her teammates and adapt to working as a unit. She's already fought against Ruby and Yang; she has to admit, grudgingly, that they have far more technical skill than she possesses.

She's used to fighting against slower, more cumbersome opponents; not one with a human's capacity to adapt, not with a human's experience. Her first two fights had been hard; they'd seemed, at times, to be playing with her - Yang, in particular. The knowledge galls her to the core.

In front of her, Blake keeps a low profile, and draws. She's fast. Weiss flicks the settings on Myrtenaster to yellow, and tries to match Blake's speed. Something snags on her ankle; she staggers. Blake jerks her weapon sharply and Weiss stumbles from the ribbon restricting her movement. She slashes, a quick desperate swipe with her rapier; Blake parries, and the impact jars Weiss' arm to the elbow. Weiss kicks out at Blake's legs aiming for the ankles, the shins; the other girl jumps to avoid the blow, the motion carrying into a handspring. Weiss ducks back, avoiding what could have been a kick uppercut. Blake lands on the balls of her feet and leans forward, gauging the distance between them.

"So, you can put your money where your mouth is," Weiss says, stepping cautiously back. She raises Myrtenaster to a protective position; the chambers click, the guard glowing red. Crimson lattices the length of the rapier's blade. She'll have to wait until her opponent gets back within her range.

"Not too bad, for a sheltered rich girl," Blake says placidly, as though they're not brawling on the school grounds for a higher grade.

This time, Weiss decides to make the first move. A temporary switch back to yellow; she surges forward, then changes to light blue. A sweep of Myrtenaster sends ice shards across the field; ice crackles underfoot - she'll have to be careful not to fall into her own trap. Blake uses her weapon's sheath to deflect the projectiles; ice rimes the angular metal contours of her weapon. Her eyes narrow; a stray shard grazes her cheek, a neat, horizontal line below her left eye. The tips of her boots skid against the frozen ground as she raises her weapon to block Mytenaster; she eyes the tip of the rapier, an inch from her face. "Well, what a matching set we make," she says, and unsheathes Gambol Shroud. She pulls the trigger; the pistol spits and Weiss is forced backwards to avoid the gunfire. She glances at the entry hole it's made into the ground by her boots; she can almost feel the warmth from the shot.

How exhilarating, she thinks. "You almost shot my foot off," she says instead. Blake smirks, and kicks - Weiss sees her moving and attempts to dodge, but she's not quick enough. Blake's knee connects against her side and she doubles over, hissing. She needs to get out of range. Widen the distance.

Myrtenaster switches to blue, an angular ice sigil forming below her shoes; she doesn't have enough momentum - she doesn't go far, just enough to avoid another blow. As soon as she leaps clear, the sigil's glow fades; the ground freezes, ice filming the soil.

Blake doesn't break stride, using the momentum of her body to plant the blade of her katana in the ground, then using it as leverage to vault over the ice-slick pitfall. Weiss seizes the opportunity; she swivels Myrtenaster's chamber to blue, and closes the gap between them. She's done this before, she thinks, as she thumbs the guard and shifts between blue and yellow. Alternate between speed and repulsion fields to increase velocity, then switch to violet at the last moment.

The battle's almost won; she can taste victory, a frosty sting in her lungs. Weiss draws back her arm, and lands against her final ice sigil; she tests her footing experimentally, then places her weight against her heels and pushes against the seal. The world blurs around her, converging on a single point - a slash of black and white, right in front of her. Blake crouches low, beginning to pull her katana from the ground.

Weiss clenches her jaw. She'll have to make this one last. There isn't much violet left in Mystenaster, and she's burnt through the rapier's store of blue. Blake fires a single shot into the cold earth to release her weapon, and vaults backward.

She wonders, fleetingly, if Blake is going to attempt to parry the hit again. Weiss can feel the power of her strike faltering - bad, very bad, it's running on fumes now.

There's a harsh, ringing screech of metal on metal, loud enough for Weiss to feel its reverberations in her bones; when her vision stops juddering, she finds herself face-to-face with Blake. She's suddenly aware of the pounding of her heart, the sweat cooling on her skin. Her fingers are clammy, cramped around Myrtenaster's handle; when she lifts her gaze she can see the pulse beating along Blake's throat; the slickness of her hair, damp against her forehead.

Gods, Weiss thinks as she attempts to pull her stare away from Blake's. This was why she liked fighting so much. It wasn't the theory; it was never the theory - no, it was putting what she learnt into practise. To feel the adrenaline coursing through her system, to feel the heat of her opponent's skin close against hers-

Wait. That's not part of the equation. Weiss swallows. Blake has lioness eyes, fierce and challenging. Hypnotic, almost. That was never part of the equation. She's always fought against machines - or, lately, monsters.

"Good match," Blake says. They're still locked in place, Myrtenaster against Gambol Shroud. Weiss feels like she'll collapse if she tries to move away. She's got a stitch in her side. Her lungs are still on fire.

_Lean forward, just a little,_ she whispers to herself. Blake's breathing has eased to a more neutral rhythm as she recovers from the spar; her cheeks are still flushed. Her scratch has stopped bleeding. When Weiss averts her eyes she finds herself looking at Blake's knuckles instead. They're lined with scars - old, pale marks or fresher, darker ones, raw, pink nicks on the skin that continue up her arms.

Blake catches her looking, and follows her gaze. "You win some, you lose some," she says simply. Up close, Weiss can see the scratches and scrapes on Gambol Shroud's sheath and guard - the surface isn't blackwater-smooth; it's as weathered as its owner is. She suddenly feels ashamed of her lack of combat experience; her one scar doesn't even compare.

"Good ... match," she agrees, and slowly pulls away. Her arm drops limply to her side.

Blake cants her head to one side as she tucks her weapon back into its holder. "It was never necessary for someone of your standing to learn how to fight," she says, wiping her hand over the cut on her cheek. "I wasn't being facetious, just now; I meant it, when I said you're pretty good at this."

Weiss reddens. "Wow, a compliment from _you_," she says, attempting to keep her tone flippant; the scathing edge peters out of it halfway through. "Hell's frozen over. But, well ... I enjoy it."

"Hmm?"

"Battle. The war-cry that sings in your blood. It's when someone is the most beautiful, stripped of all pretence. I wanted to be capable of that."

Blake smiles, a slow, secretive curve of her lips. "Is that so?"

.

She doesn't know what makes her do it. What makes her pull Blake into a kiss in the alcove where they had their first conversation, trading barbs and bartering insults.

Maybe it's the adrenaline. The ache along her side from Blake's hit. She feels restless, overwrought.

Blake doesn't protest; she doesn't even do Weiss the favour of acting surprised. It galls her; she digs her nails into the back of Blake's scalp to elicit a reaction.

"You're so demanding, _princess_," Blake murmurs against her mouth. "Always looking to get your way."

Weiss tugs at Blake's hair in response, and Blake snarls; she pushes Weiss against the wall and Weiss rakes her nails down Blake's back, satisfied. "I have always gotten what I wanted," she says as Blake hisses under her breath. "Why should it be any different here?"

"I'm not a _thing_ to be wanted," Blake replies. She runs her teeth over the column of Weiss' throat and Weiss draws a sharp breath. She can feel the shape of Blake's smile against her neck; the warmth of Blake's tongue as she laps at her collarbones, the scrape of her front teeth against her skin.

If only her parents could see her now, Weiss thinks, almost gleefully. Dirty and bruised and sweaty after a sparring match, kissing a girl with lioness eyes in a dark alcove in a school for Hunters. What else would she need to complete the checklist to send them into apoplexy, she wants to know.

Blake pushes back the collar of her bolero and bites, harder, then traces the indents from her teeth with her tongue. Weiss shivers at the sensation; her left leg slides between Blake's and Blake makes a quiet sound at the back of her throat, and digs her teeth into curve of Weiss' shoulder. "You can't set your family lawyers on me for this," she says; the edges of her voice are ragged, curling into themselves. "Not when you started it."

Weiss is painfully aware of everything around them - the flat plane of the wall against her back, the tassels of a tapestry digging into the base of her spine, her fingers tangled in Blake's dark hair; she can feel the muscles of the other girl's back shifting, tensing, as she pulls Blake's face towards her and kisses her again; she can hear the voices coming from down the hall, the sounds of other students on their way to dinner or to back up to the dorms; the erratic rhythm of her own breathing hitching in her throat; Blake's hands, rougher than hers, against the bare skin of her shoulders. She grabs Blake's right hand, and brings it to her mouth, nipping experimentally at her fingers. There are scars along the back, some deeper than the others, the skin tight and shiny and half-healed; it really puts the disparity between them into perspective, she thinks, as Blake's eyes slide shut, her head lolling back against her shoulders.

What vulnerability.

The sound of footsteps nears. Blake's eyes snap open as she pulls away and licks her teeth, running her hands through her hair as she straightens her bow. Weiss hurriedly pulls her bolero back on, adjusting her sleeves. Her hair's all dishevelled now; she hopes nobody will notice, or think it's just from the spar.

"Don't think I'm done with you yet," she says as haughtily as she can manage. She can still taste Blake on her lips. The other girl smiles, a lazy, wolfish grin.

"Yes, I'm quaking in my boots already," she says. "I'll see you at dinner."


End file.
